“It belonged to Frank.”
She looked about five years old.
Frank stood behind her.
He was younger. Thinner. And happy in a way I had never seen.
“Who is she?”
Caroline’s voice shook.
“Her name was Miley.”
The room seemed to narrow around that name.
“Her name was Miley.”
“Frank was married before he met your mother,” Caroline revealed. “Miley was his daughter.”
I gripped the photograph by its edges.
“Where is she?”
Caroline’s eyes lowered.
“She died when she was five.”
The words landed softly, which made them hurt more.
“She died when she was five.”
“There was an accident at a lake. It happened quickly. Frank blamed himself even though there was nothing he could have done.”
I sat down because my legs would no longer hold me.
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“After Miley died, his marriage collapsed,” Caroline said. “He stopped speaking to people. He stopped answering my calls. We were best friends. He packed away every photograph, every toy, every reminder that he had ever been a father.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
My eyes returned to the little star cutter.
